


and the devil will find work for idle hands to do

by scarecrowes



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:13:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrowes/pseuds/scarecrowes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It doesn’t matter if you’re right or wrong…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the devil will find work for idle hands to do

**Author's Note:**

> Mid-season two speculative fic.

“Put it down.”   
  
Rothstein (not AR, not Arnold, not  _now_ ) has a hand up - not outstretched, just hovering like he’s telling him to pause mid-sentence and not-  
  
“Meyer. Put the gun down.”   
  
It burns, that he can say that. That he can say it now, after Meyer’s spent a year reasoning circles over numbers and figures meaning more than blood flecking his jacket and Thompson’s blank hum in his ear, _tell Rothstein.._.  
  
Meyer’s hand is firm on the grip and his finger solid over the trigger - he’s practiced enough times, visiting Charlie upstate and before that the gun stolen from under Joe Adonis’ mattress so Charlie could push his hands into the right place to hold the weapon,  _like this, okay?_  
  
He can’t hesitate anymore. He’s spent months between pouring over numbers and working games just grinding his teeth,  _can’t won’t can’t won’t_ and all his own confusion mirrored in Charlie’s,  _how can we, what are we, how-_  
  
Rothstein moves like he might step forward or speak again and Meyer pulls the trigger because he _can’t_ anymore.  
  
 _You just have to make a decision._  
  
There’s a hole in the molding by the window, the metal under his hand hot and gunpowder flecking his sleeve.   
  
AR’s closer now, ducked forward with all the speed so many don’t know he has - in spite of how it’s supposed to be like a _standoff_ , a scene whirring over and over in Meyer’s head - but he isn’t a _fool,_  to stand still for a bullet.  
  
Meyer can’t move fast enough before he speaks again.   
  
“This isn’t you, son.”   
  
That isn’t all it takes - but it’s enough that he wavers, and AR nudges his hand down so five shots can aim at nothing but the floor.   
  
There’s a moment he could move - lift his aim again, or AR could bolt, or push him back. He does neither, and Meyer - still wavering, _tell Rothstein what you saw here_  and blood in the dirt under much younger shoes - slides his gun back into his coat.  
  
AR hits him.   
  
It’s once, sharp, enough - the flat of his hand against cheekbone like even Charlie wouldn’t, something like his mother’s disapproval or his father’s stern observance of won money and bloodied clothes.   
  
And AR seems surprised at himself, as Meyer staggers back - the cold shard of fury in him filtering back to  _nothing_  that Meyer knows isn’t, as much as his skin stings and without the weight of a pistol in his grip he feels too young and lost, here.  
  
 _Fix it._  He can’t say it, and they won’t.   
  
But there’s still the moment he lifts a hand to find his burning cheek, daring not to wince and AR catches him - gunpowder-stained sleeve and all, around his wrist. He pulls him forward and tight, and Meyer wants to kick and bite and _run_  as much as he collapses, forgetting until he’s this close how he barely comes up to AR’s shoulder.   
  
He knows Charlie would say something now, try to bite words hard through his teeth because the flood wouldn’t overcome him, like this. But as it is there’s a brand in his skin where AR’s lips push in, near his hairline like he’s small and forgivable, still.   
  
 _Fix it. Please?_  
  
“Meyer…”   
  
It’s with AR’s grip gone tight as a vice around his back that he realizes, that time, he asked it out loud.


End file.
